Duck

The story: A duck did come to our door - a lovely female. She possessed both curiosity and a certain sense of intellectual haughtiness. She pecked on our glass door and it was the insistent desire to

I HAVE A QUESTION FOR YOU . . . 

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"And what might that question be?" I asked, rather astonished that a duck should want to have a word with me.

"Quite simple really; my first question is: why won't you let me in?"

"And why SHOULD I let you in?" I inquired.

Glancing at the people nearby she quietly muttered out of the side of her large black beak "I need to discuss Brexit with you - privately that is. There are too many people around here - I need to enter the privacy of your home before discussing such a vital, and might I add deeply troubling matter."

Alarmed at the possibility of a duck causing a riot outside my front door I quickly ushered her in to my lounge.

"Why on earth would you, of all creatures, need to discuss Brexit with me?" I enquired.

"Well, first of all,” she answered “Thank you for inviting me in to your lovely lounge” - mimicking those American politicians who are always thanking BBC interviewers for allowing them on to their ‘Beyond 100 Days’ news program.

“My second question is really quite straightforward: will I be allowed European flyover rights after Brexit?”

“Although my home is really here in the UK” she confided, revealing a small but colourful Union flag hidden under her magnificent feathered plumage "my intention is to pay a flying visit to my French cousin - she resides on one of the smaller tributaries of the River Seine - somewhere near the late Claude Monet’s garden at Giverny.

"I am sure you will!" I replied “Theresa May has already touched on that particular issue with that nice Belgium gentleman Michel Barnier.

“But will I require a British passport?” After all, I might require consular assistance while in Europe. I don’t trust all those foreign ducks, especially the French and Italian types. I’m quite good looking you know!”

“Indeed you are . . .”

Admiring her beautiful plumage I wondered how it was that a duck would concern itself with the foolishness of the British homo sapiens; we who seem unable to decide whether to exit the EU or remain part of the ‘Projet Européen’, as Duck fondly referred to that grand vision of European unity.

“I also intend a quick visit to the Elysian Fields - better known as Champs Elysees” - she continued, with a knowledgeable wink. “And I shall definitely be visiting the Musee Picasso, located in the Hôtel Salé in rue de Thorigny, in the Marais district of Paris."

"Quite aside from that," she went on, thoughtfully inclining her beautiful feathered neck "I also intend making a quick visit to the Louvre; I need to have a closer look at Leonardo’s Mona Lisa; she has the most enigmatic smile. Have you noticed her lovely lips?

“Are you aware that there are thousands of visitors to the Louvre! You are such a small creature - how will you ever manage to reach her through the crowds?”

“My dear fellow, I intend to fly down the Grande Gallerie over the heads of the admiring crowd, until I reach the Salle des Etats.”

For a while, my mind wandered far from my English home  and in my imagination I saw Duck flying over the heads of those humans from distant shores, unaware of the drama that would ensue after discovering a duck with a British passport and a Union Flag, flying about in the Louvre.

“But quite aside from visiting the Louvre I intend settling down on the River Seine for a day or two - and perhaps I may visit Montmartre; walking once again down Utrillo’s quaint streets.”

Her eyes glistening she exclaimed, “I want to imbibe the ‘spirit’ of Paris again. After all, being a deeply committed existentialist duck I long to return to those cafes where Jean Paul Sarte watched the Seine flow by while preparing his manuscript ‘Being and Nothingness’ for publication. And how about my good friend Albert Camus - such a humane existentialist - the only human I care for really. Incidentally, you know of course that Sarte’s mother was the cousin of Dr Albert Schweitzer, the gentleman who thought he had finally seen off the search for the historical Jesus . . . getting into an awful eschatological muddle over it all?”

"And don't forget Jean Paul's lifelong lover - much like myself, Simone de Beauvier was a great feminist . . ."

I was growing tired of Duck’s ramblings and her continually probing my ignorance of all things European. But she continued prattling on, now perched on my shoulder gazing down at my computer screen. She noticed I had a new friend on my Facebook page - a Polish lady who, together with her husband owns an old granary in Hereford.

“I see you are now making friends with the Poles. Do you think they might have a little grain for me.”

That was enough.

“GET OUT DUCK!”

“You are imposing on my Facebook friends and shattering my pleasant solitude. The lovely Sylvia will be returning soon. What will she think of me, alone in our lounge talking to a beautiful female duck - I will be in serious trouble."

"And by the way, you are not pronouncing that Polish name correctly and neither can you spell half the French you pronounce so poorly. You leave off acute and grave diacritics and quite aside from that I have hardly been able to get a word in. I refuse to offer further answers to your questions - anyway you have no right to intrude on the human province!"